


When I wake

by Zeona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After Reichenbach, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blind Sherlock, Blindness, Canon Divergence - His Last Vow, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eye Trauma, F/M, Hearing Voices, Hurt/Comfort, Mentioned Irene Adler, Other, PTSD John, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Pre-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 03:15:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9529358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeona/pseuds/Zeona
Summary: John finds a letter for him from Sherlock after The Fall. The letter reveals that Sherlock is actually still alive. John, concerned that Sherlock is still not back, looks for help in Mycroft, asking him to help search for Sherlock who has gone of radar and disappeared.While all that is happening, Sherlock is being tortured in Serbia. When he finally gets rescued(almost a year later), the after effects are devastating and Sherlock's friends try to help pick up the pieces of his life....Deals with Sherlock's torture and the aftermath...not entirely s3 canon...Possible series/more tags to be added/...on the spot plot





	1. Chapter 1

John is finally ready to move on. Sherlock’s death had hit hard on the already war-worn soldier and he had spent almost an entire year and a half grieving, unable to move on, unable to move out of 221B Baker Street no matter how hard it was to stay in that now quiet and solemn home. The consulting detective’s loud stomping, or the violin playing in the middle of the night, or the tinkling of the chemistry set left untouched in the kitchen, the bustling rush of a case, or the tall wiry man whining and shouting and booming voice that had once commanded attention was now… Now it was all gone six feet under.

John had decided to move out. Just being there was too much now. It reminded him of Sherlock too much. Currently, the man was in his bedroom, finally sorting through the mess, placing his belongings into a box carefully. Mrs Hudson had been upset but understanding when he’d told her that he was moving out. She had hugged him, cried a little and told him to go on and pack all his stuff and make sure the flat was nice and clean because she wasn’t going to clean up after him, of course not, she wasn’t his “bloody housekeeper”. John promised to return on a regular basis but otherwise, would continue with life. Without Holmes.

John reached up to pull the last book off the shelf. His arm suddenly cramping up, he lost his grip on the book and it tumbled, bouncing painfully off his head and onto the floor with a thud. John cursed and bent down to pick up it up when he noticed a page had come loose. Frowning, John pulled at it and it came free in his hand. It was a letter and not a page.

**Sherlock Holmes**

John froze, staring at the familiar scrawl on the back of the sealed letter. Was this addressed to him? Had… Was this Sherlock’s official suicide note? He sat down on the floor heavily, and with trembling but careful fingers, opened the letter.

**Dear John,**

**I do not know when you will find this, or if you ever will. I have placed this letter in a book you have not touched in the years we have lived together and I doubt you will in my absence. I am not one for sentiment, but as the time draws nearer for me to leave, I find the urge, and the courage to write this letter no matter how much Mycroft will disapprove if he finds out, or the danger it poses to you should anyone else find it. You have become one of the few I can truly call my friend, and as you know, I do not have many. And it is because of that, that I am writing this letter. There is something you need to know John. I jumped off the building because I needed to save you.**

There’s a dried splotch on the paper, and a new one joins it. Tears. John tilts back his head, eyes closed. It was confusing what Sherlock was saying, and it was difficult to read on. A tear streaked down his cheek as John took a calming breath before picking himself together enough to continue reading the small script of words on the paper.

**When I was on the roof of St Bart’s, as you should know, I was faced with Moriarty. The things he did, breaking me down, pulling my life apart, was important. It was what was vital to the intricate plan my brother and I had - that Moriarty thought me outsmarted by him himself. That way, he would reveal things about the little web of his.**

**It was already predicted. The many different possibilities of what Moriarty could do, and to each, we had a solution that would end things. He fell right into our trap. But I fell into his. In my confidence, I had underestimated him, thinking myself smarter. He threatened lives. Lives that I could only save if I killed myself. Three lives. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and you. John Watson.**

“Oh, Sherlock…” John took another shuddering breath.

**He had snipers trained on all of you. And if they did not see me fall from the roof of St Bart’s, you would have been blown apart. Of course, there was already a plan set in place for the occasion should I need to… jump from the roof. I, of course, would have preferred a less… a less dangerous way of pulling Moriarty down. When I confronted the possibility of taking him hostage in exchange for your lives, he eradicated the idea by shooting himself. There was some sick kind of glee to him, then that, even when he was going to kill himself, Moriarty knew that he had won. Or well, so he thought. One cannot outfox a fox after all.**

Through the tears, John chuckled. Of course, the wiry tall Holmes had to be proud of it.

**You came, and...well you know the story after that. I jump, and you watch on. You will then proceed to run for me, where my cold body would be, and you would search for a pulse and find none.**

John choked, and the letter slipped from his fingers as he struggled to get himself back together. It had been horrifying. Watching Sherlock Holmes on the roof, voice cracking as he cried over the phone, trying in vain to somehow make John not believe in him. But how could one fake Sherlock? No one could. And he had stayed on, his faith in his friend still strong. The disbelief, the horror at watching his best friend throw aside the mobile and take a step off the roof. He had been frozen. Watching as he fell and then disappeared behind the rush of buildings and traffic.

John had burst into a run, his head in a whirl of emotions, of denial. That no, Sherlock hadn’t just done that. He had not just thrown himself off the roof into certain death and he had to see. Had to make sure for himself. When he had finally gotten to Sherlock, blood was already pooling around him, a crowd gathering. He had shoved through, determined to help his friend, his mind not registering, not accepting the empty eyes that stared back at him. And when his fingers pressed to Sherlock’s wrist came up without a pulse, he had broken. As the crowd pulled him away, he had fallen with it, his mind a silent buzz that numbed him and blinded him and then… it was over all too soon. Molly had confirmed his death. Had called and declared Sherlock nothing more than a corpse.

John shook his head, back into the present.

**However, Moriarity’s people were still out there, and we needed to send someone to end Moriarty’s control around the globe. An undercover agent of sorts had to be sent to eradicate Moriarty’s criminal network. That way, no one would be in danger of the man, even after his death. Especially not those in London. And who better else to send than the man who knew the insides of Moriarty’s brain himself? The man whom Moriarty had been obsessed with, that finally led to his demise? We had to send me in.**

**And so, everything was set up. John. This is the part you will dislike rather much I think. You have always been one for honesty, especially in friends. And this is the part where I am honest. John Watson,**

**I** **am alive.**

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Bold is text in Letters or Messaging  
> ... Italic is (translation) or thoughts

Sherlock Holmes was currently chained up in a cold cellar, his body shaking, wet and cold and almost entirely bare except for the pair of tattered shorts hung loosely around his waist. His brown curls have grown long and dirty, a shadow of a beard growing and his once lean body thin and malnourished. His body is covered in scars and markings and abrasions of all kinds. His back has suffered the most, evident from the fresh lashings across the old, the scars, blood and pus seeping out of untreated cuts new and old. His body is purple with bruises and pale, almost deathly white with a tinge of blue in the cold. His arms are wrenched above his head in the most painful way possible, letting his toes just barely brush the ground so that his weight pulled on his wrists against the cuffs, cutting into the bony almost non-existent flesh.

A thickly bearded man wrapped up in equally thick winter clothing, stands in front of Sherlock, his hands wrenching back Sherlock’s head.

“Шта знаш! Шта знаш!? _(What do you know! What do you know!?)_ ”He yells, roughly shaking the thin figure and slapping him, causing the chains to rattle.

Sherlock coughs. “Ништа...Не ... знате шта ... говорите. _(Nothing… I do not… know... what you're saying…)_ ” His lip is split and a faint lash can be seen across his bruised, repeatedly broken nose. His eyes are bloodshot and he chatters. His right eye has almost been beaten shut and his cheeks are split and bruised, his scalp raw and hurting.

“ЛИАР!!! _(LIAR!!!)_ ” A kick to his stomach and Sherlock lurches against the chains, gagging. Blood leaks from his lips, staining his dirty teeth.

In Sherlock’s mind, he was only thinking about how undignified and humiliating this was, that he stank and was filthy and that the pain was incompetent, idiots inflicting this upon him and that _The John in the corner was doing nothing about it_.  He didn’t blame Him. To be frank, The John in his head had kept him anchored, kept him from babbling the secrets that threaten to spill after a too long beating or an especially torturous session of whatever methods they used to try and break him.

Some part of his mind knew that John wasn’t actually there, and maybe that was why he had begun to address this… out of his Mind Palace John, The John. Yet at the same time, in his drugged addled and beaten mind, it seemed convinced that John was there, watching and waiting in the shadows for some sort of hidden opportunity to exact his revenge on those that had beaten Sherlock. Why John was his person of comfort he suspected was because he had been an important role in his life seen he'd inserted himself into it. He had ingrained himself so deeply, that Sherlock drew on his strength. John had understood him, had tolerated him in ways even Mycroft, even Lestrade could not.

“Одговори ми! _(Answer me!)_ ”

Sherlock kept his lips sealed, and for rest of the interrogation, the only sounds that escaped his mouth were hoarse screamings, grunts and groans from the beatings that followed. His last stop, Serbia. The final part of Moriarty’s web. After this, he was supposed to be free. Free of this tedious undercover job of his and be ready and prepped to go home. Back to 221B Baker Street in London. Back to being a consultant detective, to solve the crimes those foolish men people knew as the police could not. Back to Mrs Hudson and John, Molly and Lestrade, Donovan and maybe even Anderson. He could probably stand their incompetent little brains compared to this.

However, he’d made a mistake. A mistake that had landed him in this prison cell. He had managed to finish off the man hiding here, but in his haste, had gotten captured. Underestimating the Serbian men in the compound had been a grievous mistake. Now, stuck here without a concept of time(he knew not how long he had been there, but he suspected several weeks according to the climate change, it hadn’t been snowing. But the way the man was dressed and the snow collected on his cap and boots and the scuffed edges of them told him it was just winter. It always snowed heavily during the first few days of that season, otherwise one wouldn’t find snow on the man’s cap.) Sherlock felt desperately lonely. And desperate. To get home.

___

**I hope you are not too mad. As you read this, I'm somewhere across the globe, taking down Moriarty's criminal organisation. It is important that you know John, that keeping you out was part of keeping you safe. We needed a genuine reaction, and I doubt you can fake one as well as one that you truly felt and thought to be true. If even for a speck of a second Moriarty's men knew I was alive, you would have been shot. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson as well.**

**I had the help of Molly and a few of my homeless network to fake my death. I will not go into the gory and fine details of it all, I have not the time, but to say the least, it was a magnificent plan that was pulled off to perfection.**

John snorted, disbelief still clinging to him, and a slight tinge of anger as well. Impossible. This man was utter, completely impossible.

**Believe me when I say I tried to avoid this… outcome. But it was unavoidable. The end was definite. Taking down Moriarty's web will be by far, the most dangerous thing I have done. But it is for the best, to keep you safe. I will have to ask you, however, that you keep this secret of my existence, a secret still. Even from the above-endangered lives mentioned. It is for the best. Also, Mycroft would throw a fit if he found out. George Lestrade isn't good at keeping secrets. Or lying. I know.**

A hint of a smile tugged at John and as he read, he found himself looking over his shoulder, almost expecting the Sherlock himself to appear.

**Time is growing short and I'm afraid I must end this letter here. Moriarty's web should not take more than a year to disassemble. Stupid men do stupid things, and Moriarty is not as wide as he makes himself out to be. We have already secured who and where these people are. It is only the matter of taking them down. Hopefully, all goes well and I return alive and well. If not, I fear I have succumbed to the fate you thought I had jumped to. Do not worry John. Soldiers for our country and soldier I shall be. Poetic is it not? That I end a letter such as it is. Sentiment, such a strange thing.**

**Sherlock**

John read and reread the letter several more hundred times. The date the letter was written was almost a day after Sherlock's funeral. He doubted it was a mistake. Sherlock did not date his letters. It was a deliberate attempt to tell John that he was alive.   

But it was a year and a half since The Fall and Sherlock had not returned. Did it mean that Sherlock was already dead anyway? Suddenly, John wanted to know. No, needed to know. He rushed out of his room, gripping his phone tightly as he dialled a number. Several rings before it was picked up.

“Mycroft! Where is Sherlock Holmes!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Please leave comments or Kudos. Constructive criticism is much appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock hissed, jerking against the chains as hot water dripped onto the torn and destroyed flesh of his back.  He was on all fours on the dirt ground of the barn, his hands in short chains so that even in his crouched position, body close to the ground, his almost bare body touching his legs and ankles, the chains would only allow his hands to go up to the sides of his head. His ankles were left free unless they were about to leave, locking him in his crouch so he couldn't sleep lying down.

There wasn't much of an opportunity for that, they deprived him of sleep most of the time. The smell of his blood mixed with the constant scent of manure and hay and animals that Sherlock couldn't see. He was hot and cold and hot and cold and the opposing temperatures upon his back made him increasing uncomfortable and pained.

Sherlock didn't give into their demands. No matter how they whipped him, or burned and branded him, or waterboarded him, or hit him, or cut him up, he didn't break. He wouldn't allow himself to. It was all transport. Mind over body. The body didn't matter. He taunted them, deducing them down to a speck of their lives, even if it nearly cost him his own. 

He'd once told a guard that his daughter wouldn't like it if she knew daddy was nothing more than a brainless thug for an equally brainless boss. And that he could continue with his gay affair with the guard beside him since his wife was having a similar affair with his sister. It was almost curious as to how many affairs were led in the lives of those guards. It was as if they wanted to be disloyal. Or stupid. 

He jerked again, a scream tearing from his sore and dry throat as the rest of the boiling water was poured across his back. Flesh bubbled and boils and blister appeared and popped, flesh turning red and cracked. Before long, the cold returned, sending waves of trembling and shaking across his body, teeth chattering and the icy ground beneath him frosted over again, freezing his arms and fingers and knees and toes. 

Gasping in pain as his head was wrenched back and a flurry of questions attacking him. His brain registered the language, Serbian, but couldn't translate. He shook his head and said something. He didn't know if he said it in Serbian as he should, or if he had replied in English, French, Mandarin or some other, or perhaps even a combination of the languages he knew. He head was slammed into the frozen ground, the ice making the pain even harsher than it should.  The John knelt next to him.

“Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. Pitiful. “I am the greatest mind ever, Sherlock Holmes!” ” He chuckled mockingly, waving his hands. “Stay away from drugs kids! Oh and don't worry, Sherlock isn't a druggie. He's not an addict! Look at him, all pumped full of who knows what. Don't mind the fact that he promised to stay clean.”

Sherlock flinched, feeling the disappointment ooze from the man. It seemed now, more often than ever, that The John taunted and poked and reprimanded him. 

“You forgot to taunt the man today. Why don't you that and ignite his fury. Maybe he'll be nice, knowing that you're smart and all, and release you!”

Sherlock yelled as the leather belt lashed across his back, the metal buckle tearing into him. He bucked against the restraints. 

“Pity you don't have your coat. Or maybe not. Wouldn't want it filthy with more of your blood hm?”

A metal rod came down in the curve of his feet and Sherlock kicked, pain shooting up his feet like an awful cramp. 

“Do you want your scarf though? Makes you look cool I'll bet.”

The hammer came down, crushing his fingers.

“That's gonna be awhile before you play your violin again. Thank goodness. Remember those days you would play at the godforsaken hours of the night? Good grief man!”

Sherlock moaned, fingers trembling despite the pain of the movement. Cuffs released and he was rolled over, cuffed again, but not to the floor. Moving. They were moving again. A sack over his head, dragged across the frigid snow that made his toes curl and sent him shaking so badly even the men carrying him struggled to still him. Rough and large hands, nails uncut and uneven. The man carrying his legs was probably a farmer, the calluses on his hands and knuckles felt so. A nervous man, the bitten nails was proof.  The way they scraped at him, the way he was carrying him, showed he had experience carrying struggling weights. Animals.  All this Sherlock thought and processed even as he was carried blind and he was cold and drugged and sick and tired and in agony. 

They dumped him unceremoniously onto the floor of the truck, his head slamming into the metal. It knocked him out cold.

___

“Very well. Let him in.” Mycroft sighed. Somehow, Doctor John Watson, the friend and ex-flatmate of his younger brother William Sherlock Scott Holmes, had found out Sherlock was alive. Or he hoped so. 

John stepped into the room where Mycroft sat, a cup of Earl grey in his hands. 

“Please, sit. I assume you have questions you want answers to. Tea?”

“No thank you.” John declines the drink Mycroft points to but takes a seat across the 'Queen of England, also known as the British government, when he's not too busy being the British secret service or the CIA on a freelance basis’ according to Sherlock.

“I want to know where Sherlock Holmes is.”

“Sherlock Holmes to my knowledge is very much dead.”

John sniffs angrily. “Don't try to fool me Mycroft. I know. And this letter is proof.”

Mycroft glares at the white parchment in the man's hands before he shakes his head.

“I should have known my brother would give in to  _ sentiment _ .” He spits the last word out like it's a disease.  “What do you know?” He asks tiredly after a pause.

“I know Sherlock's been sent undercover to destroy Moriarty’s criminal organization. Where is he now?”

“I don't know.”

There's another,longer pause as John processes this. “You don't know.” He repeats flatly. “You don't know? You're his brother fo-”

“Oh please Doctor Watson. Do not lecture me on brotherly concerns.  Sherlock was last seen in Serbia 5 months ago. He has accomplished his task but has not contacted me. I assume he is off gallivanting about the globe high and drunk.”

“You should be able to find him then!” John leans forward.

Mycroft shifts, taking a sip of his tea. The only hint at his unease. “Sherlock has not been seen anywhere. Not in Serbia or regions close and far. I've no reason to worry… he's taken down Moriarty's web with ease and little to no trouble. He has not contacted me by any of our emergency means. Even our contacts in Moriarty's web have not seen Sherlock since Mora- Moriarty's men were finished off.”

“That should be cause for concern should it not?” John scrunches his brow, eyes boring into Mycroft. The unease and tension in the room rises rapidly.

“Sherlock… is complicated.”

“Sherlock could be in trouble right now and here you are, finding excuses not to search for your brother. I don't care if you’re intelligent or  _ Intelligence _ but you don't deserve the admiration Sherlock has for you. You disgust me. Either you put some back bone in your search for him, or I will unleash a hell of rage on you. And you do not want me to do so Mycroft Holmes. You really. Really. Don't want me to.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock runs, stones and leaves and branches and roots catching at his bare feet, further tearing them into shreds. He doesn't look back. He just runs. His body is trembling even though it's hot now and his legs threaten to buckle beneath him. He wears nothing but a pair of torn shorts. There is no sound but his labored breathing, the crunch and scrape of pounding feet on leaves and stone. 

When he finally slows, the sun is rising and a fever has taken him, and Sherlock stumbles drunkenly before falling to his knees, throwing his cuffed hands out to catch himself.  His right hand has its pinky and ring cut off to the third knuckle. It's been sloppily bandaged and it aches as it hits the ground heavily, bracing the weight of the thin man.  

“You need to get your fever down, or it could prove fatal. The infections in the wounds on your back…”

“схут уп Molly… _ (Shut up Molly…) _ ” Sherlock mutters, gasping as even the simple act of speaking brought a sharper pain in his broken ribs. His voice sounds darker somehow, scratchy with misuse and lack of water.

“You need to take care of yourself Sherlock, even if it’s just transport. You aren’t helping your body. At this rate, you’re going to die.”

“Agreed. Don’t fall asleep now. You need to treat your wounds first. And that fever.”

“То је. само. Транспорта. Одлази John, Molly. _ (It is . Only. Transport. Go away John, Molly.) _ ” Sherlock gasps again, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to focus on breathing, pushing away the pain that rippled through his body with each breath. “ум над материјом…Willenssache. Mens supra materia... ум над материјом, ум над материјом, ум над материјом...!!! _ (Serbian, German,  Latin, Serbian: Mind over matter) _ ”

“You aren’t better than this. You can’t fight this with your mind alone.”

_ ум над материјом _

“Silly silly William. You always were the stupid one. You know you can’t do it. Why must you insist on torturing yourself.” Mycroft’s voice butts in, joining John and Molly.

_ Ја нисам глуп. Я не тупой.我不傻. (Serbian, Russian, Chinese:I’m not stupid.) _

Хеј ви тамо! Јеси ли добро? _ (Hey there! Are you okay?)”  _ A hand lands on his shoulder and Sherlock jerks backwards, training kicking in. In a split second, he has the Voice pinned under him, a knee pressed into the Voice’s chest, fists raised threateningly. It’s a man, short and thin, stubble growing and glasses crooked on his freckled face. He is slightly tanned and his hair is dyed a bright blue. A stark contrast to the dark green moss and leaves surrounding him. 

“Полако! Хеј ... Нећу те повредити. _ (Slowly! Hey…  I’m not gonna hurt you.) _ ” Sherlock trembles for a second, taking several steps backwards. The man rises slowly, hands out like he was approaching a wild animal to be tamed.  “ти си повређен. Доћи. Моја супруга и ја ћу ти помоћи.  _ (You're injured. Come. My wife and I will help you.) _ ”

“не. не. не не не. Не дирај ме. _ (Serbian:No. No. No no no. Don’t touch me.)” _ Sherlock backed away, stumbling before he fell to his knees for the second time that morning.

“то је у реду. _ (It is okay.) _ ” The man paused, now unsure.

“оставлять! _ (Russian: Leave!) _ ” 

The man shook his head, not understanding Sherlock. “Да ли сте из Србије? Одакле си? _ (Are you from Serbia? Where are you from?) _ ”

“s'il te plaît laisse moi seul... _ (French: Please leave me alone…) _ ” 

“Француска? _ (France?) _ ”

“Non... Non? _ (French: No… No?)”  _ Sherlock hesitates _. “ _ Я не знаю... _ (Russian:I don’t know…) _ ” His head swam, aching. Pain. There was nothing but pain and white and then Sherlock was toppling forward, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he fainted. The man lurched forward, catching Sherlock.

___

When Sherlock woke, he was mostly delirious. His hands remained cuffed and he is lying on his back. All he knows is that in this position, it. Is. AGONY. He thrashes, his back burning like it had been recently lit on fire, the injuries inflicted upon him still raw and bleeding. 

Sherlock’s wild movement and screams makes the door explode open and someone comes in, Sherlock is too blind with pain to tell who, and holds him down. He bucks. The pain is multiplied tenfold. Someone speaks and finally, he is pulled to the side where the pain subsides. Just a little but enough.

He feels hot. Incredibly unbelievably hot but cold all at the same time. He feels something cold placed across his forehead, providing temporary relief before the cold seeps away and he is left hot and sweaty again. There is movement. Too much movement. It overrides his senses and finally, he slips into unconsciousness.

___

Sherlock wakes again, this time on his side. He lurches to his feet, fear flashing in his eyes. The suddenness of it all causes pain to flash through his body and white to blind him momentarily. His feet buckle beneath him and he lands on the floor with a crash. Gasping, he crawls to the door and pushes it open. It’s open. It’s open and he can run. He can’t stay here, he will get caught. Sherlock pulls himself to his feet using the door frame and he staggers through the hallway, hands pressing against the wall to hold himself up. Someone, a man he finds vaguely familiar, appears. Words are spoken but he doesn’t register. He knows he is in no condition to fight. So he runs instead. Or tries to. He trips and staggers and slumps against the wall because a sudden bout of heat and dizziness has overtaken him and he knows he’s going to be tortured for leaving the room. A cry of despair escapes his lips as he slides into darkness.

___

The cycle repeats several times more before finally, the fever breaks and the bruises are beginning to yellow and fade away. When he wakes this time, his head is clearer. For a moment, Sherlock lies confused, staring at his cuffed hands that were no longer chained together. They had been cut off by bolt cutters. The chain is hangs, the edges rough and uneven. Sherlock slowly pushes himself up but a murmur stills him. 

“Do you want water?” A heavily almost Russian like accented voice comes from behind him. Sherlock doesn’t dare move. Perhaps it is a trick of some sorts. A new method to make him believe freedom was right there only to take it away. Cruel as it seemed but it felt too good to be true. 

Sherlock swallows thirstily and somehow, the man behind him sees it through his long mop of curls and a tanned hand appears from behind, careful, holding a plastic cup of water. Sherlock takes it with a trembling left hand. His fingers, unused to holding something, having clenched empty air in pain for months, can’t quite hold the cup proper and it slips through and topples to the floor. Sherlock grunts, slightly annoyed. 

“Here. I will help you.” Finally, Sherlock can place a face to the voice. It is the same blue haired man from before. He avoids the spill, placing a chair over it and sitting down, holding up a second cup. The rim of the cup touches Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock takes a careful sip, trying to taste for any drugs, poison… When he tastes nothing out of the ordinary, he takes gulp after gulp, almost choking on the water. “Care.” 

“Не разумем те. _ (I don’t understand you.) _ ” Sherlock says finally after the cup is drained of it’s contents. He doesn’t dare speak English. It could give him away.

“ Да ли сте сигурни? Ви сте говорили енглески. Док имате температуру

_ (Are you sure? You spoke English. While you had a fever.) _ ” 

Sherlock curses inwardly, hoping he had done nothing of the sort back in the most definitely prison. “Не говорим језик. Мора да сте добро чула. _ (I do not speak the language. You must have misheard.)” _

“Добро _ (Okay) _ ”

___

As Sherlock slowly recuperates, his hosts, Danilo(the man) and Vira(his wife) goes about their normal business. They don’t question him after his first break down at their attempt at one. He appreciates but fears that silence. Good things never lasts. 

A week later, the door bursts down, and men crowd into the room, grabbing him. Serbian soldiers. He is still too weak to fight back. They beat him up first, before pulling Danilo up with him. They question the man, but the good sir never budges. Doesn’t even begin to flinch when they start to beat him. 

They ask Danilo how he knows Sherlock. Danilo says he doesn’t recognize the man. Spits and curses at the soldiers and Sherlock wishes and begs for them to stop, to turn on him because the man doesn’t know anything he is innocent. His wife does the same, their bravery and loyalty to someone they don’t even know ends up with them tied inside of their own home, and then it is lit. There is a muted scream from inside, but it silences for a moment. Then the cries of Остани јак rips through the air like a prayer, a mantra. It is aimed at Sherlock. For Sherlock. Not for themselves as they burn alive in the building.

The soldiers make Sherlock watch, as tears stream down his face, hating himself at that moment, that these wonderful amazing people had given up their own lives for someone as worthless as him.For a cause they didn’t know they were helping. For a man they didn’t know. The words “Остани јак” grows fainter, even as Sherlock screams back at them, repeating the words, even after the cries have died away, he says them still, even as he is dragged away and gagged, back into the truck, back to be tortured for answers he wouldn't give. 

Остани јак.  _ Stay strong _ .


	5. Chapter 5

“South of Serbia, a house was burned down, it's occupants in it, cuffed and bound together. A man was seen led out of the house by Serbian high ranking guards. The man was identified with uncut curls and beaten.” John looks up, staring at Mycroft. “He is suspected to be my brother.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“We need to find out where he's being held. Even our local sources aren't entirely reliable. We need to be entirely sure.”

“Did someone expose him? Maybe he didn't have any way to contact you because he'd been exposed. Maybe he was hiding with those people.”

“No. Sherlock is not one to hide. He is reckless, unthinking. Childish. He would have found a way out of Serbia. Furthermore, if I had had a double in my contacts, you would already have been dead.”

“Are you entirely certain? You can't even find your brother. And you're the British bloody government, smarter than your brother as you're so inclined to say.” There's a twist in John's expression that Mycroft can only identify as something in-between mocking and disbelief. Mycroft pursed his lips, trying to cool the rising anger and irritation at this stupid. Stupid man sitting on the couch of 221B. 

The place is a mess of what Sherlock had left behind, an untouched chemistry set in the kitchen, books and stray sheets of paper piled high around a table and behind 'Sherlock’s couch’. A laptop remains closed on the desk, dust gathering on the casing. In fact, it was rather dusty. Mycroft thought it all out of character for John.  Mycroft stuffs a hand in his pocket, looking down at John as he stood.

“I am doing my best Doctor Watson. I am… concerned as well despite what you may think.”

“I thought you like to believe that  _ caring isn't an advantage _ ? The phrase is getting quite old don't you think?”

Mycroft represses a sigh and instead of answering, turned on his heels and left, the click of his umbrella echoing in the mostly empty flat.

___

Sherlock glares at his torturer. He won't allow himself to be broken. No matter the tauntings that came from both the real people standing before him, and the Mind Palace copies of his friends. They ask him questions and he answers with a piece of their lives he has managed to pick out from them. He doesn't care that they beat him all the more harder for it. He will not lose his spirit. He cannot.

“Ко те је послао!(Who sent you?!)”

“Покушај да не виче. Ти звучи глупо кад вичеш. ( _ Try not to yell. You sound stupid when you yell.) _ ”

“Умукни и одговори ми! _ (Shut up and answer me!) _ ” A slap that sends Sherlock, chained to a chair, falling to the floor. There’s a grunt before Sherlock answers.

Волео бих да и једно и друго, али онда бих био непослушности те. _ (I would like to do both but then I'd be disobeying you.) _ ”

Sherlock raises his head, smiling weakly.  The soldier punches him and a spurt of blood as Sherlock’s nose is broken.

“Убити их са љубазношћу зашто не? _ (Kill them with kindness why not?) _ ”

_ “Figure him out Sherlock _ “

John murmurs, looking at Sherlock from his dark corner. 

_ “ You know how to get into trouble. Do it. You know you want to. You always want the praise and the recognition don't you?” _

_ “You’re always trying to act cool. I don’t blame you. Must be part of your sociopathic character. Low self esteem.”  _ Moriarty snickers. “ _ I doubt you can be smart and normal, not like me. Not like your brother Mycroft.”  _ He sneers at the name, like even the words on his lips taste as revolting as he himself was.

Sherlock is quiet, but in his head, he is at war with them.

“ _ Shut up. Go away _ .”

___

Sherlock's head feels heavy and light and muddled and all too clear all at once. It's strange and pounding and aching and awfully awfully painful. It's the drugs, Sherlock decides. The drugs they always pump into him for whatever reason. He doesn't know. He's high for sure. So high. He wonders if they are even beating him for answers anymore. He barely remembers answering them. It's almost automatic, his snide retorts, his observations that processes far too quickly and too much at the same time. It shouldn't be possible. His past experience with drugs told him that. Usual, it made him feel normal without the overload of too more deducing done in his subconscious mind that he always needed to delete and clear later. 

These days, he didn't go into his Mind Palace. Usually, the occupants in it came to him. It must be a mess right now. But he can't go in there. It's far to painful to do so - the effort of hiding in his mind far too complex it seemed as each movement brought pain that  pulled him out of his mind. There was just so much it was overwhelming. He thought his senses or his skills might have dulled over the months - he hadn't had much practice - but it seemed that they had heightened to an almost inhuman level of processing.

The smell of his blood, of waste and vomit and the familiar musty smell of men and women and doctors(bad doctors, his mind supplied) and acid and fire and burning wood and boiling water. The little stains that he shouldn't be able to see on the cuffs of a faraway Serbian guard, the slight lifts and sounds that would've sounded the same to anyone else but each tone and lilt of a voice crisp and clear to Sherlock's ears. The grimy feeling of dirt on his unwashed skin, the mixed grains of sand and dust and blood and skin. The feeling of different ropes and cuffs and floors and walls.

There was just so. Much. So so so much. The voices, the Mind Palace people didn't make things better. He wondered if maybe he'd done something wrong to deserve it. Maybe it was because he had faked his death. Maybe maybe maybe…. So many millions of possibilities that danced and played around in Sherlock's head. It was dizzying it keep up with the rush. Even solving petty little crimes hadn't been this… Exciting. 

Maybe he should just rest. Maybe they would let him. Just this once for five measly seconds to close his eyes. He desperately needed it. Wanted it. He hated that his transport made him so weak. So dependent on rest. It was such a hindrance. However. It was just transport. It was all mind. They couldn't touch him there. No matter how hard they tried. Even if they pushed him past his breaking point, his mind would still be flexible. It would still hold on. It had to.

Sherlock desperately hoped for someone, anyone to take him away.


	6. Chapter 6

“We’re closing in. Lockside, are you secure?”

“We're secure and ready June. Atlantis, watch your seven o'clock.”

John is almost about to explode just listening to their confirmations. Almost a near 7 months had passed after his discovery of Sherlock's existence. After a long, long time of searching and making sure and double checking, ruling out places and possibilities… it was almost as if John was back on the field, adrenaline running high, expectations even higher, hoping that the battle field wasn't too chaotic, that there weren't too many dead or injured, and that hopefully you'd survive and leave without so much as a scratch.

There's a flurry of movement in the helicopter and suddenly, Mycroft is next to him. He's out of his usual tux, instead, in commando clothing, thick, heavy.  Bullet proof. John decides it doesn't fit the man very well. Or maybe it's just because the older Holmes was always seen in a suit and his trusty umbrella. Seeing him out of it just felt… strange. In fact, John wouldn't have been surprised at all if Mycroft entered the battlefield umbrella waving. 

“Are you ready Doctor Watson? Once the area has been locked down and Sherlock's captors dealt with, we'll land and deal with whatever trouble he's gotten himself into.”

“Stop making it sound like it's Sherlock's fault. I don't want anyone to make him sound… stupid. Fake.”

Mycroft sniffs, almost as if he's about to say something but then thinks better about it.

_ John: You should have gone with him. People will think— _ _   
_ _ Sherlock: I don’t care what people think. _ _   
_ _ John: You’d care if they thought you were stupid or wrong. _ _   
_ _ Sherlock: No. That would just make them stupid or wrong. _ _   
_ _ John: Sherlock, I don’t want the world believing you’re… _ _   
_ _ Sherlock: That I am what? _ _   
_ _ John: A fraud. _ _   
_ _ Sherlock: You’re worried they’re right. _ _   
_ _ John: What? _ _   
_ _ Sherlock: You’re worried they’re right about me. _ _   
_ _ John: No. _ _   
_ _ Sherlock: That’s why you’re so upset. You can’t even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You’re afraid that you’ve been taken in as well. _ _   
_ _ John: No I’m not. _ _   
_ _ Holmes: Moriarty is playing with your mind too. Can’t you see what’s going on! _ _   
_ _ John: No, I know you’re for real. _ _   
_ _ Sherlock: A hundred percent. _ _   
_ __ John: Nobody can fake being such an annoying dick all the time.

_ ___ _

Sherlock is in a familiar position. Chained to the ground in a crouch. He's somewhere new though. He doesn't know where. There's shouting, people asking him questions. At least, he thinks they're questions. Beatings. Someone is lashing his back and he knows he's screaming. Jerking against the short chains. There's suddenly a pause. A break in the unending torture that has become his new life. After his failed attempt at an escape, he's never left alone. Never not beaten. Never not questioned. Always always someone somewhere watching.

“Неко је овде( _ Someone's here) _ ”

The words are clear in the suddenly silence, the only sound is of Sherlock's whimpers and harsh breathing. His head is aching badly and he's fallen unconscious several times already during his torture. He wonders if maybe he's had brain damage. Several days earlier, his head had taken quite a beating, and now, he constantly slipped in and out, despite the pain and the screaming. His vision was starting to get a little hazy too. Maybe he's going to die here… maybe it will be a mercy. That way … that way…

The quiet is overwhelming and Sherlock raises his head, squinting. Two Serbian guards have their heads bowed, murmuring. Then suddenly, there's an explosion that rocks the room. The door explodes into nothing more than pieces of wood and splinters. The Serbians put up a good fight but are soon subdued, guns pointed at their heads. They are cuffed and then made to kneel. 

Someone reaches for him slowly and he shrinks away. Who are they? He thinks he recognizes the symbol on their vests, even though it's blurry to him. Secret agents? No. They wouldn't work in such a bold manner, and not in such a big group. Just military then. Enemy or ally? Ally most probably. Hopefully.

There's a shout and for the first time in a year, he hears his name. At first he thinks he's dreaming. That Mind Palace John has come again to taunt him. But it's real. It's too real when the man goes over and kneels beside him, hand reaching out. And then the feel of soft and gentle fingers on his shoulder as Sherlock looks up in disbelief. He stares into the face of a man he once knew. That he had lied to and tricked, but only to save him. 

“Не гледај ме…” Sherlock pulls away as far as the chains will allow him to. “Не гледај ме.” He bows his head, hands holding the sides of his skull as he moans and whimpers. “Не гледај ме!”  

“Sherlock? It's going to be fine. Just-”

“Не гледај ме…”

“It's okay. There's nothing to be afraid of. We're going home.”

“Не гледај ме. D-don’t… don't look at me… don't look at me.” 

___

Sherlock lies on the hospital bed, eyes closed and tubes and needles stuck into his thin frame, medicating him. John stands, staring down at the man before him.

He'd gone through several tests and surgeries, had multiple stitches and broken bones set. A week later and Sherlock at least looked a little fresher, the beard and unkempt hair cut and trimmed. John thanks the nurse that was treating him as she makes her exit. She gives a pitying smile and mods before disappearing out the door. Once Sherlock hears the click of the door closing, he opens his eyes.

“What are you still doing here John? What am I still doing here?” John moves to a chair beside Sherlock and sighs again.

“You need to rest. Your body is-”

“Bloody fine thank you very much. Do skip all the doctory crap and let me get on with life.” Sherlock waves a 

“Sherlock.” John gives an annoyed look. The detective looks away and John regrets it immediately. Usually, Sherlock wasn't so sensitive about these things. Then again, Sherlock usually wasn't beaten up to a scrap of life. “Look Sherlock. Just give it time okay? You can't go rushing around with broken limbs and getting into danger. Not so soon.”

“Please,” Sherlock snorts, “my body is capable of handling all sorts of things. It's just transport.” He half rose from the bed, seemingly to get up.

“And if your transport has broken down? You need to fix it. And fixing needs time and rest. And food also. You've been avoiding everything like the plague. It won't help you.”

“I don't need my body to enter a state of digestive lethargy. I need it to be perfect and ready for action at any time.”

“That’s utter bull. Just look at yourself Sherlock! You're a mess! You can't even hold a spoon and you want to walk!?”

Sherlock swallows and let's himself fall back into the pillows, barely managing to hide a wince as the pressure on his damaged back sent a jolt of pain through him. John frowns and takes a look at the drip feeding him morphine. It's been lowered to a measly number of one. John purses his lips and reaches over to increase the dosage but a hand grips his wrist, stopping him.

“I don't need that to be higher. I'm can cope.” Sherlock quickly withdraws his right hand, the one with missing fingers when John's eyes drop to them.

“Honestly Sherlock. You're going to be the death of me. And yourself. You're obviously in more pain than-”

“I'm fine. Please.” Sherlock looks tired. Too tired and John decides to let it drop. For now. He would press on Sherlock's health when he was better. “I need to rest.” He mumbled, closing his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock constantly slips in and out of consciousness. John notices that whenever he thinks no one is looking, or no one is around, Sherlock decreases the dosage of morphine. He doesn't know if he should be relieved or worried.

Everytime he broaches the subject, Sherlock shuts down, acting pissed and angry to shove John's attention away. It works, even when John knows it's happening. It's hard to stay calm around the man, even in his pitiful state. It's almost like Sherlock has doubled his annoying behavior, like he wanted them to hate him.

___

Sherlock hated himself. He disliked the way people looked at him with pity. How they had to carry him onto a wheelchair just so he could take a piss. He couldn't do so many things. His body betrayed him, trembling and shaking and never doing what it was told. Pain shot through every joint and muscle that twitched. That made people worry all the more. He doubted that if Mycroft hadn't threatened them or some sort, they would continue being so patient and kind to him. 

The Mind Palace people and the real ones got him all muddled. Suddenly there was the real John, interfering with the Mind Palace John, who was always there, floating around, chiding and snickering and snapping at Sherlock. 

The real John was almost the opposite. Too compassionate. Too calm and controlled and unseeing. Sometimes Sherlock wanted John to yell. To scream at him and hit him - something other than treating him like he was a glass sculpture. 

He needed a reaction. He needed something other than sleep and blurry awakenings. He needed to move and be done with this phase of break downs. It didn't matter to Sherlock that he ended almost a sobbing mess on the floor whenever he tried to get out of bed to walk to the window. He just needed something new. 

No one gave him that. His mind plagued him, constantly dragging him back into the dark days of torture. The way they had methodically pierced his skin, whipped him. Making sure that he would be permanently scarred. Scarred and scared. 

_ He jerked, eyes watering as they brutally pulled out a toenail.  _

_ “ко те је послао!?(Who sent you?!)” _

_ “нико! нико… нико!(No one)” _

_ “не лажи ме! Имао си америцан опрему!(Don't lie to me! You had American equipment!)” _

_ Another nail is pulled. Sherlock let's out a grunt, the pain finally pushing the tears to fall. _

_ “веруј ми… веруј ми…!(Believe me)” _

_ Sherlock's head is slammed repeatedly into the wall until he can see nothing but blood running down into his eyes. _

_ “КАЖИ МИ!!(TELL ME!!)” _

___

Sherlock doesn't properly wake for several weeks, almost as if having fallen into a coma. When he does open his eyes, he's a mumbling mess, eyes darting all over the place. It's almost as if Sherlock is back to stage one, still trying to hold on to the concept of home. Once, when John went to visit Sherlock, he had spoken Serbian in his dreams, his face a flurry of emotions but his body still, barely twitching.

He wants to help this man, this man who'd once been so strong and was now broken, though Sherlock would never admit it. The damned man wouldn't accept help of any kind. His pride wouldn't allow it.

John isn't sure what to do with this new knowledge of knowing that the detective was safe and here, right here in London. He wanted to tell someone. Greg, Mrs Hudson, Sally, Anderson. No one knew of Sherlock's existence. Not yet. There were still things to be settled. Things that needed Sherlock's existence to be unknown. 

So Sherlock Holmes was being treated in some private hospital that Mycroft apparently owned or some other thing, and John was driven there by car weekly to visit Sherlock. He never saw the older Holmes but he suspected the man visited his brother without witnesses. The man may claim not to have any sentiment for anyone, but he did. His love for his brother Sherlock was stronger than anything else. Possibly.

_ ___ _

Sherlock was barely even present. His dreams plagued by his torture. His Mind Palace was a mess to behold. The first time he had entered it, the building was practically in pieces. Almost every room and corridor filled with too much trash and smoke and blood. The walls crumbling, the paint peeling. The stairways weak and threatening to shatter beneath his feet. Several rooms he could barely even recognize - they were so destroyed. Things. Animals. Critters. They all made their way around the Palace. They weren't afraid of him. Once, Sherlock wouldn't have been. Yet these creatures someone, with their eyes and fur and scales and claws, whenever they turned to look at him, he was afraid. 

_ They'd locked him down onto the table. He was thrashing, knowing what was coming seemed even worse than not knowing. They released the first batch of rats on him. At first, they were timid and cautious. Once they were confident in their new environment, they ate. They gnawed and chewed and finally they climbed on him and their claws scrabbled over his skin and- _

It was horrifying. Sherlock left his Palace and didn't touch it again. But his horrors found other ways to grasp hold of him. They pulled him into deep sleep, and beat him until he was begging for them to stop. He was tempted almost, to reveal the secrets he held within but he wouldn't. He couldn't. At this point, he barely even remembered what his name was. 

When he woke, it was a brief relief. His sight hadn't seemed to get better, in fact, even worse. Sherlock wondered if maybe he was starting to hallucinate. Or that he was so into the past that being in the present muddled with him. He hated that his transport was failing him. Had failed him. 

He needed to be working again. To keep his mind off it. So he woke up.

___

John sat beside Sherlock, murmuring to him soft comforts as Sherlock jerked in his sleep, a small whimper escaping him. When John attempted to wake him, he had recoiled from his touch with a gasp, a cut off scream. So the Doctor waited Sherlock out. There was a French, then English curse before Sherlock, body tired, fell silent and still. John was worried for a moment that his heart had stopped but the monitor still beeped, albeit a bit fast.

Then Sherlock's eyes opened, hazy and disoriented. “Помоћ!”

“Hey hey… you're in London now Sherlock. You're safe.”

Sherlock jerks away from his voice, ripping out IVs and tubes. He gives a shout in Serbian thrashes, almost falling off the bed. John leaps to his feet, arms shooting up to grab Sherlock away from the corner of the bed.

“J-John?” Sherlock's head moves to the side, searching for John in his dazed state. 

“Yes Sherlock?”

“је ли то- is that… is that you?”

“Yes it's me Sherlock. You're safe, you're in London with me John Watson.”

“John…”

“What is it?” finally, John notices the urgency, the anger and frustration in Sherlock's tone. 

“John…” there's a slight tinge of panic. And John realizes how Sherlock isn't really looking at him, but looking in his general direction. “John. I… I can't see you… why can't I see you?”


	8. Chapter 8

“This here? It's damaged.”

Doctor Jefferson points at a scan of Sherlock's eyes and brain. “The optic nerves have bee-”

“Will I see again?” Sherlock interrupts. There's a cold pause as Doctor Jefferson stares at John who stands just to the side of the bed.

“You've suffered severe head trauma, and your sight has dropped drastically over the past few weeks.  That's to be expected since you often are sleeping.You will be able to still see light and figures at best. I-”

“You're not answering my question!”

“... It is… it is unlikely you will regain your sight. Even if by some miracle you do, I doubt your vision will be up to even 50% of what you once had.”

“Get out.”

Doctor Jefferson blinks. “Mr Holmes? I-”

“Get out right now or I promise you I will throw everything in my reach at you.” The man hurries out with a worried glance back at the thin man lying on the bed. Sherlock throws an arm over his eyes, fists clenched.

“I should've known. I'm sorry Sherlock.” John moves towards Sherlock who stiffens. John stops, then slowly edges his way over and easing himself onto the mattress.

“I'm going to be blind for the rest of my miserable life. What's the point any more? If I can't see. I can't deduce, can't solve cases, can't use my chemistry set. I doubt I can even play an instrument with my bloody hands. Eternal boredom. I never knew life could get more boring than this.”

John was surprised and shocked at this admission. Emotion, especially this kind of giving up, was hardly seen if at all, in Sherlock Holmes.

“Don't… don't say that Sherlock.”

Sherlock chuckled, but it sounded dry and forced. “I'm just a machine John. A machine that has run its end and is finally useless.”

John swallowed, remembering what he'd said, hours before Sherlock had fallen off the roof of St Bart's.

 

_ Watson: She’s dying you  _ **_machine_ ** _! Sod this. Sod this, you stay here if you want. On your own. _ _   
_ _ Sherlock: Alone is what I have. Alone protects me. _ _   
_ __ Watson: No. Friends protect people.

 

“I was wrong Sherlock. You're not a machine. You're a person. A person with emotion and feelings. You're my friend.”

“I don't have an-”

“SHUT up and listen to me Sherlock. You are my friend regardless of what you might say. Don't ever give up on me Sherlock because I swear you will regret doing that. I won't stand and leave you to destroy yourself. This. This isn't you this self pitying and groaning about. That's not you at all. So get your butt on track and start. Moving.”

And then Sherlock began to cry. Sobs that robbed him of his every breath, that made him double over gasping, tears running down his face. His hands covered his eyes, pressing harshly into them as he cried. John slowly patted him, then edged closer, closing his arms around the man, wrecked and destroyed. 

___

Sherlock spent weeks in hospital, doing therapy of all kinds, mental and physical. He was almost entirely unresponsive when they got psychologists to speak to him but he improved rapidly in strength, able to walk and climb up stairs again. He couldn't run, it as far too painfully and the way he walked awkwardly spoke volumes of the damage done to him.

He was taught how to use a white staff to tap his way through, to listen and wait. His blindness didn't dampen his intelligence a bit. He picked it up and was soon excellent at being blind. Almost as if he'd been blind his whole life. Of course John never commented on it. Before long, Sherlock was bored. Impatient to get back into the comfort and familiarity of 221B.

“I insist that you allow me to return.” Sherlock glares at Mycroft’s direction who stands by the door. Sherlock is sitting on the corner of the hospital bed, a book in his hands. John sits on a chair beside Sherlock, arms half pushing himself off the chair, ready to do anything or restrain anybody. There was tension in the air, a crackling fizzle of anger and impatience.

“Sherlock, you know that-”

“I am not in any danger any longer. I can take care of myself just fine. I am fit to return to my flat. It has been… been too long staying here and recuperating as you so like to call it.” Sherlock waves his hand, his brain still not accustomed to the concept of time strangely enough. It had been his greatest difficulty of returning to society. His time captured, he had spent days in darkness, in cells, with little to no sleep. Sherlock, while tortured, had never known what day or time it was, had not known how long it was. In the end it didn’t matter. However, he was back now. He needed to remember that sometimes, things changed. That even if things repeated themselves, they weren’t the same days seemingly restarting. 

“No. I’m sorry brother mine. I will not allow you to-”

“I am in -”

“Stop cutting me off Sherlock!” Mycroft snaps. “I will not tolerate this insolence. You need time to get used to things. Other issues still have not been settled. You cannot not think of the safety of your friends now. It would undo the years you have spent pulling down Moriarty’s web.”

“There’s nothing to settle ‘brother mine’,” Sherlock snarls, “You only wish to have control over me! Isn’t that what you do best? Stick your nose into other people’s lives and businesses when it’s none of your concern. I am perfectly capable. I am not an invalid.”

He flings the book and it misses Mycroft, surprisingly close to where Sherlock thinks he is. Sherlock grabs the staff by his bed and steadying himself, hobbles and taps his way towards the door, shoving past Mycroft. The older Holmes catches Sherlock’s arm and twists it behind his back, pressing him into the door frame. Sherlock yelps, face contorting in slight surprise, pain, and a tinge of fear.

“Mycroft!” Both John and Sherlock yell, the former rising from his seat.

“Don’t try that again with me Sherlock.” Mycroft pulls up the Sherlock’s arm sleeve, the one twisted behind his back. Fresh bruises scatter his forearm. “Do not think I am blind to what you are doing. I don’t know how you’re getting it, or why, but I will not allow you to escape and-”

“ослободи ме.( _ Release me _ )”

“Sherlock.”

“Молимо вас…( _ please… _ )”

Mycroft slowly eases off Sherlock who nearly crumples and John rushes to him, holding him up. 

___

“How did you know?” John asks later once Sherlock is sleeping.

“That he was using?”

John doesn’t answer, just glares at Mycroft judgingly. The man turns around and pushes the door to Sherlock’s room open, leaving the space that suddenly feels all to cold and quiet. John quickly goes after the man, having to jog to keep up with Mycroft’s fast pace and long legs. The man gives no indication of having noticed John behind him but he answers.

“Sherlock's fingers were trembling slightly more than usual, his eyes are more red rimmed, and he has been interrupting me more often than he usually does. He's less alert, when I came to see him yesterday, he couldn't pinpoint my position. He also threw a book at me, was easily irritated and provoked - a sign seen in heroin users coming down from a high.” Mycroft continues walking down the corridor, away from Sherlock.

John groans, rubbing his temples.

“What are we going to do about it? About him?”

“You mean what am _ I _ going to do about it. Send him someplace more secure. We'll keep him away from drugs better than these people here can.”

“What? No! He needs comfort and familiarity, not change and being controlled.”

“I don't think you understand Sherlock as well as you think you do Doctor Watson.” Mycroft sounds almost annoyed. And a little confused.

“I think I do. I understand him better than you do.” John rolls his eyes. “Look, just let him go back to Baker Street. We could just tell Ms Hudson and no one else. If your crisis can be easily and quickly be resolved then-”

“It already has been Doctor Watson.”

“Well then Sherlock was right! So why aren’t you letting him go back?” 

Mycroft suddenly stops and John almost crashes nose first into his back. The older Holmes turns slowly to look down at John. He would look intimidating to anyone else but John had seen more terrifying things. Like  _ amputated limbs, blown out brains, gouged out eyes and a body ripped apart in a  _ \- John shook his head to clear the sudden onslaught of images.

“Sherlock is unsteady at the moment. Look at him and tell me Doctor Watson if he is capable of handling himself. He took heroin for goodness sake!” 

“This isn't the place for him. Let me take him to Baker Street. Two weeks. And if he doesn't improve… you can do whatever you think is best for him. He needs somewhere familiar. Somewhere he knows. Trust me.”

Mycroft curls his lip in response but after a long pause, gave one solid nod.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is a short one. Busy with exams!

Sherlock feels the car slow, the door opening. John says something but he ignores him, focussing on getting out of the car without falling over. It's nighttime, the lack of activity and cool air was enough evidence. He staggered rapping his stick harshly on the pavement, leaning against it heavily to support his weight. Sherlock should be using his dominant hand but since it's fingers have been… brutally taken a permanent holiday from his body, he's taken to using his left hand. Just as dexterous with it but a little rustier than his right. 

When John moved to help him up the flight of stairs, he rudely shrugs him off,  concentrating on the steps in front of him. He steadies himself against the wall with spread fingers, slowly and achingly making his way up, uneven steps as his hips and legs took a beating with each upward step.

It took Sherlock a decade to climb up the first half before he sank down to the ground, trembling.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?”

“I… I just… need… need a….” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively, taking in huge gulps of air.

John takes a step up from behind him and Sherlock coils himself tighter, forcing himself to slow his breathing.

“No no no…. I… I'm fine… I… I just…” 

And it takes several more minutes of Sherlock stuttering and never really completing his sentences before he finally gets up again. “It's… it's just… muscle… spasms…” Sherlock mumbles more to himself.

___

Sherlock slumps onto the couch, exhausted. He wasn't sure what had made it so difficult climbing these set of stairs. It hadn't been much of an issue before. But the stairway had suddenly felt constricting, pressing down on him and grabbing at his heels. 

He finally cleared his thoughts enough to notice that not much has changed. Except it smelled a little fresher. Like it had just been cleaned. Maybe things could go back to normal. A small spark of hope.

_ “Don't be ridiculous Sherlock. You're blind. There's no 'back to normal’, now.” _ Moriarty's snickering battered down the momentary joy. Sherlock glared at Moriarty. In this semi darkness, his Mind Palace escapees seemed more real than ever. More solid and permanent.

_ The Serbian guards dragged him down, chaining him to the floor, tearing and stripping off his clothes. _ Sherlock swallowed.

_ “You're an utter. Utter disappointment. I thought you were off drugs.” John snacks him. Then the lashings come and- _

Sherlock blinks, gasping. Hands are around his shoulders and he hears John's hurried but steady voice. His breath comes in short bursts, frantic and on the verge of tears. He forces himself to breathe slower, to become normal. To resemble normal. 

-

One second Sherlock is fine and calm, the next he is practically falling off the couch in a daze, his breath coming too fast.

“Sherlock! Sherlock? I need you to breathe!” John pushes the man upright, and the detective's head lolls, not focussing on him. “You're breathing too fast. You don't have enough oxygen in your system. I need you to breathe slower for me.”

There's a panicked whimper and Sherlock jolts.

“Sherlock? Stay with me. I need you to-”

“ОСТАВИ МЕ НА МИРУ!( _ LEAVE ME ALONE _ !)”

Then Sherlock is back, his breath slowing, his body trembling and arms and fingers wound up tight. John slowly takes his fisted hands which are cold and clammy. 

“I’m fine… I-I’m fine.” Sherlock stutters, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes which are still a little hazier than usual. “I’m fine… I’m fine fine…” He shakily withdraws his hand from John’s.

“We’re fine.” 

 

They’re not.

-

Sherlock spends most of the week on the couch. Mrs Hudson had screamed the first time she’d seen Sherlock lying pale and asleep on the sofa. It had jolted him out of his rest, nearly sending him screaming too. John had been there to settle things, murmuring a quick “He’s alive but it’s… Complicated” to a rather confused, terrified and shocked Mrs Hudson before shooing her out.

Thank goodness Mrs Hudson accepted it although she sent questioning glances at John every now and then when she dropped by to give cookies or something of the sort. 

That evening, Sherlock decided to get out his violin. He got up from his position and stumbled around the area, searching for the case and it’s contents. 

“Sherlock? What are you doing? Do you need something?” John stood up quickly, following after Sherlock.

“I’m fine. I don’t need you to babysit me.” Sherlock half snaps, half growls. He’s still thin, terribly underweight and pale. He wears long sleeves and his scarf even in the flat, unconsciously self-conscious of his scars. His bruises have faded away but the rest of him still seems to have difficulty knitting itself together. Sherlock’s hands brushes across the wall, his brow scrunched. “Where’s my violin?”

John sighs. “Hold on a second. I’ll bring it down.” He leaves Sherlock leaning against the wall and returns not long after with the violin case in his hands. Guiding Sherlock back down to sit, he places the case in Sherlock’s lap and sits across him in his usual chair. His slender white fingers ghost across the casing, shaking more than usual. His muscles haven’t reached full strength, nor in Sherlock’s complete control, especially since his momentary stop in therapy. 

He finds the clasps and unclasp the case, gently taking out his violin. He holds in his hands for a moment, before lifting his chin to put the violin in place. His right hand takes the bow and there’s a moment of quiet between the two men as Sherlock tunes the instrument. 

Then he starts to play. 

It’s rusty, slow and hesitant at first. His hand trembles but it is still steady, the music having a calming effect on him. The music is low and rumbling, gentle almost. It increases in intensity, louder, higher, a crashing crescendo. Full of emotion and wanting.

John doesn’t recognize it from the songs Sherlock used to play. Tears prick the back of his eyes. Just slightly more than a year ago, he’d never thought that he would hear the younger man play again. He rises from his chair and quietly goes into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. His legs give out and he slumps against the door, listening to Sherlock play, not realizing that his companion had left.

Tears flow freely as he leans against the wood, his ears picking up the soulful playing of the violin. There’s something dark in the music, that tears at him in ways John didn’t think was possible. It claws at him, grabbing and screeching one second, and the sorrowful, begging the next. John wondered how a man, years away from playing, still managed to bring out the best in his music. Something had been reawakened in the man, a passion for his violin. 

There’s a pause in the music. A sharp cry of shock and then a crash. John doesn’t hesitate. He rushes down, regretting he’d ever left Sherlock alone.

“Sherlock! What-” His eyes widen. Sherlock is on the floor, his chair tipped over. Someone is standing over the detective.

“What on earth is going on here?” Lestrade turns to look at him, eyes blazing.

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

“Greg? What are you doing here?” John stands still, Sherlock temporarily forgotten until he gives a groan and sweeps his hand out blindly. “Crap! Sherlock!” He rushes over to help him up. He's shaking slightly and his face is grim.

Sherlock lurches forward and finally, Greg Lestrade moves forward to help, his previous anger fading into concern. They set him onto the couch and Greg fluffs up a pillow, settling it behind Sherlock.

“What… what happened to you?” Greg doesn't touch Sherlock,simply staring at him.

“Oh I took a trip. A nice holiday.” Sherlock replies snarkily although his voice shook a little. Greg doesn't push it and sits quietly. The silence drags long and uncomfortable.

“What are you doing here Greg?” John breaks the silence. Greg blinks, almost as if just remembering something important.

“Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock snorts a little at this, his blind eyes brightening in amusement and curiosity. 

“What did she do? Bribe you? Tell you that-”

“Just tea Sherlock. Just tea.” Greg shook his head before giving Sherlock a light pat on the shoulder. “It's good to have you back mate.”

“Really?” Sherlock's voice turns soft, wavering slightly. Greg doesn't question it, his attention suddenly averted, staring at the suddenly interesting wallpaper.

“Yes. Really.”

___

Sherlock twitches in his sleep yet his face a smooth mask of resting calm and peace. The only thing that betrayed it was the occasional barely noticeable tightening of his fists tucked under his arms.

He hardly ever enters into too small or big spaces and always faces the door. He's better at holding himself upright, expertly concealing his uneven gait caused by too abused hips and feet, mangled beyond repair. His hands tremble more than they shake and he is able to drink or pick up things without much aid. 

There's something resembling normalcy now. When and if Sherlock slept, he curled up in the center of the sofa instead of his bed. When he woke, he demanded tea or coffee, whichever be was feeling for at the moment. He paced paths in into the ground, jittery and nervous, pushed down energy overflowing into the walls of 221B.

He talks to John sometimes however. Talks to him when he isn't there. John walks in on one such conversation one day.

“Of course not John! There is nothing I can do about it. Do you sincer-” Sherlock had paused mid sentence and so had John, his body freezing as he hears his name from downstairs. 

“No no no no. I can't do that John, will you - no shut up!”

There's only one voice to be heard and it's Sherlock's alone. The ex-army doctor hadn't been quite sure what to make of this. Auditory hallucinations. About John… about him. Knowing he should report it or do something about it yet not wanting to… John had decided to wait it out and soon after clomped down the stairs noisily to alert Sherlock of his arrival. 

The one-sided conversation quickly ceased and when Sherlock comes into view, he had been sitting cross-legged on the sofa, weary eyes staring angrily at his hands.

That was slightly more than a week ago.

 

Sherlock remains asleep, but soon becomes more distressed. He's groaning, eyebrows scrunching and knuckles whitening. 

“НЕ ЗНАМ!!(I DON'T KNOW!!)” He screams, jerking awake. It sends a jolt of pain and a grimace to flash across his features.

“Sherlock?” John appeared from the kitchen, a cup of tea in his hands. Sherlock’s head flicks towards his voice.

“I'm fine John.” It sounded forced and too controlled but John didn't push it.

John sighs and walks over towards him, pushing the cup of tea into Sherlock's hands.

“Want to listen to some crap telly?” He asks, sitting in the couch across Sherlock.

The tall man sniffs, setting his feet flat on the ground but doesn't object when John moves to grab the control and switch the television on. It's about an hour so before Sherlock finally speaks.

“I need to get out. Out of this wretched flat. It's boring and tedious and repetitive. I can't stand it!” His fingers twitch but Sherlock remains mostly controlled - which was usually very unlike him.

“Sherlock, you know y-”

“Oh screw Mycroft! He speaks nothing but patronizing crap about how I must protect my country. Like I have the time and energy for that! I just need to have some fun!”

The cup shatters in his hands,ceramic slicing his already damaged hand and hot water splashing over it and onto his lap. Sherlock barely even winces.

“Sherlock!!” John rises from his seat to grab the medical kit in his bedroom and gently pulls Sherlock's hand up to take a closer look. There's a deep gash diagonally across his palm and one more at the corner of his thin wrist. Minor burns were already sporting around his knuckles and the back of his hand. “Don't do that. Are you purposely trying to keep yourself here? If you keep injuring yourself…” John wraps his hand up tightly.

Sherlock's lips tighten. It's enough. 

“Sherlock? Did you… what have you been doing?”

“Nothing at all John. This is the first time I-”

John pushes up Sherlock's sleeve. There are rows and rows and rows of neat little white scars, glaring on Sherlock's already paler white skin. Unwanted tears form in John's eyes.

“Sherlock… why?”

There is a pause as John looks up into Sherlock's eyes, trying to search for answer in the silence.

“I… I… I was… It's nothing.” Sherlock looks away, almost as if avoiding the gaze he can't quite see. “It's nothing John. Just… leave it be.”

“I CAN’T Sherlock!” His voice cracks as finally, the worry and anger and confusion and pity break through his inner defenses.

“Why not? It's my life! My body! I should be in control of what I can or cannot do!”

“Is that what this is then? A… a proof that you're in control?” John is disbelieving. How had this man, so strong and proud, resorted to doing this? Self-harm?

“No. No it's not John! You don't understand! You look but you don't see! Why won't you just leave. Me. ALONE!” He shoved John away, staggering to his feet. “Just leave me alone! Okay? Maybe. Maybe I just need something to do. Maybe I just need something different. If you'd just let me go out there to solve a case, maybe I wouldn't have become like this! I'm not broken. I'm NOT. Broken. Not. Broken.” There are tears in Sherlock's milky blue eyes too. “I… I'm not broken John. Really.”

John walks slowly over to Sherlock and then puts his arms around the taller man.

“I know Sherlock. I know… You just need help…”


End file.
